


House, DVM

by KilgoreOnTralfamadore



Category: House M.D.
Genre: "Oh my god they were veterinarians", Alternate Universe - Veterinarians, And they were veterinarians?, Angst, Animals, Cats, Dogs, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, Horses, M/M, OP is an actual veterinary student, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Veterinary Clinic, Veterinary Medicine, Whump, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27930223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilgoreOnTralfamadore/pseuds/KilgoreOnTralfamadore
Summary: If Gregory House, DVM, had the slightest bit of respect for humanity, he would have gone to human medical school. But he doesn't and he didn't. Instead, he stalks the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro Veterinary Teaching Hospital, helping animals (and antagonizing his colleagues) one paw at a time.This AU re-imagines the world of House as a veterinarian, following the diagnostician and his team in the hectic world of veterinary medicine.
Relationships: Allison Cameron/Robert Chase, Greg House/James Wilson, Lisa Cuddy/Greg House
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	House, DVM

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! As a veterinary student and long-time House fan, let me thank you for clicking on my story! I wrote these cases myself, trying to make them as realistic as possible, while keeping the dramatic style of the original show. (So please keep in mind that not everything in the story is medically accurate...) 
> 
> Of all my stories, this is the one I'm most proud of. It's so much fun to combine these two loves of mine, and plus I get to tell myself that it counts as studying. 
> 
> Please leave a comment, it would make my day! :D

The Diagnostic Department at Princeton-Plainsboro Veterinary Teaching Hospital was little more than a broom closet. If you asked Dr. Cuddy what is was, she would call it a “administrative hygiene room.” The only property belonging exclusively to the department were the folding table, folding chairs, and the “Canine Internal Anatomy” poster that drooped depressingly from one corner. Everything else (the whiteboard, pens, textbooks, folders, and the crusty coffee pot) were blatantly stolen from other departments. Since absolutely nobody in the hospital wanted to exchange words with the department head, they simply relinquished their belongings.

Dr. Gregory House, DVM, DACVP, DABVT, was what he called a “veterinary diagnostician:” taking on mysterious, rare cases unsolved by every other referring vet. He had both the appearance and the personality of a geriatric silver tabby tom: scruffy hair and beard, judgmental blue eyes, and a disapproving stare that dripped with disdain.

It was his misanthropy that he figured qualified him most for veterinary, not human, medicine; in reality, it did little more than make him an insufferable ass for colleagues and clients. Though he justifiably fancied himself a terrific diagnostician, his caustically sarcastic personality drove away every human that had the misfortune of meeting him. For House, this was exactly what he wanted. Clients were liars, idiots, roadblocks on his way to a diagnosis. Patients, on the other hand, were black box enigmas waiting to be solved and dispensing nothing but cold, hard fact in the form of clinical signs. Humans shrouded the truth: the farther he was from the client and the closer to the patient, the more reliable the information. He’d take a reading from an Idexx machine over an owner-reported history any day.

3 months had passed since the department was officially opened, yet not a single case had passed through the office. Only cases that were unsolved by other veterinarians passed onto the department head, Dr. House. So far, every other department was successfully doing its job. Much to his shock and chagrin. The department ate up hospital funds and shat out HR complaints. It gave Cuddy nightmares.

It had only taken Dr. House 3 months to make enemies in every department of the hospital. Even the doe-eyed first-years avoided him like a crypto calf. Some residents swore they could hear him coming just by the sound of his uneven gait. _STEP, shuffle, STEP, shuffle_ … deathknells brought more joy.

Three unlucky specialists had been assigned to House’s department: Dr. Robert Chase, VMD, DACVS, Dr. Alison Cameron, DVM, DACVECC, and Dr. Eric Foreman, DVM, DACVIM-Neuro. This fellowship was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work under the world’s foremost veterinary pathologist. And yet, every single one of them secretly counted the days until they were fired or House died. Preferably both. There were rumors that Chase kept a tally carved under the folding table, but nobody dared check.

On this particular day, the three accomplished veterinarians sat peacefully in their “office,” picking furs off of their white-coats. 90 minutes of their 10-hour shift had already slogged by, with no appearance by their boss. Chase and Foreman leaned back in their chairs, checking their eyelids for cracks. Cameron was flipping absentmindedly through the latest publication of JAVMA, the front page of which exclaimed in bold typeface, “The Canine Immune System- What _Don’t_ We Know?” The sounds of a code being called and the rush of hurried footsteps drew their attention longingly to the door. Which, to their shock and awe, swung open. House limped in, hair unbrushed and shirt unpressed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he crowed without a hint of sincerity. “Ran into a bitch in the hallway.” He meant Cuddy. He limped over to the coffee pot, inspected its contents, and ultimately decided not to risk the salmonellosis. “Perk up! Got us a case.”

Chase snapped his head up. “Really?” He asked hopefully.

“Aye, but sorry mate, this one ain’t a wallaby from down under, so don’t be gettin’ your knickers in a twist,” he replied in a ridiculous mock Australian accent. Cameron narrowed her eyes at the blatant lack of cultural sensitivity. Foreman smirked.

House frisbeed a manila folder at each of his employees. Inside were the records of their patient. Unfortunately, they were scant.

“3-year-old intact male Coonhound. Hunting dog that ‘just ain’t right.’ His bay sounds different and he’s weak in hind limbs. Differential diagnosis, people.” House used his cane to pull the dusty whiteboard out of the corner towards him. Uncapping a fresh black marker, he wrote the letters “Ddx” across the top and began taking notes.

“Trauma?” Cameron suggested immediately. “He’s a hunting dog, could’ve injured his spinal cord while working. Gotten into a fight, or gotten hit by a stray bullet.”

“There’d have to be two different lesions to connect the dysphonia and the lameness.” Foreman rebutted.

“Dysphonia and limb paresis point to something neuromuscular. He’s a hunting dog, right? Could’ve gotten bitten by a raccoon. I’d say rabies is on the table.” Chase looked smugly around the table, but Foreman met his gaze with a disbelieving smirk.

“Rabies?” the neurologist replied. “You wanna be the one to tell the owner you’re killing his dog and cutting out its brainstem to diagnose a disease he’s vaccinated against?”

Chase refused to look crestfallen. Instead, he shrugged and steepled his hands in front of him. “Rabies vaccine efficacy isn’t 100%.”

This time, Cameron cut in. She didn’t bother looking up from the manila file folder. “His chart indicates his last rabies vacc was 6 months ago. According to the label, it wasn’t set to expire until 4 years from now. If a bad batch of rabies vaccinations got into circulation, I’m sure we would have heard about it. I agree with Foreman, it’s not rabies.

“Another neuromuscular explanation is myasthenia gravis,” Foreman offered. “Weakness, dysphonia, sudden onset, it all fits. We should run an edrophonium test.” Cameron scanned the table, waiting for someone to shoot down her suggestion. Her bold eyes met House’s, waiting for something. Praise, reprimand, anything.

A beat passed, then another. Once silence had thoroughly permeated the table and all the vets were nodding in agreement, House spoke up. He capped his expo marker and tossed it other his shoulder.

“Myasthenia gravis it is. Cameron, Chase, you two go show the client what you’re capable of. Foreman, come with me. There’s a fat ass in the clinic you _gotta_ see.” Chase and Cameron shot disapproving glances at their boss (albeit, Chase’s expression was more curious than that of his colleague). “What?” he feigned innocence. “It’s an obese donkey! You kids, always with your minds in the gutter.”  
  


* * *

Dr. Lisa Cuddy suffered no fools. You could tell from her pencil skirt, low-cut top, and blown-back 80s hair that she was a woman who remained unruffled. It took quite a lot to raise her temper. Unfortunately, she had a weak spot. Like a pinched nerve, it tingled all day, until the stars aligned and, in a flash of unbearable agony… 

“Ah, House, just the man I wanted to see,” Cuddy called to her employee from across the bustling clinic. She didn’t mean a damn word of what she had just said. All she wanted was to corner the diagnostician. For what purpose? “Clinic duty. You. Now.” She walked brusquely up to House in anticipation of an unnecessarily prolonged conversation.

“About that,” House replied. He put one hand on Foreman’s shoulder and guided him so he was standing between House and Cuddy. “This strapping young man has volunteered to take my place in the clinic today as I am currently… indisposed.”

“Foreman doesn’t do clinic duty. The department heads do.”

“Why don’t you do clinics then?”

“I’m not a department head. I’m the head of department heads. Dean of Medicine, House. I run the hospital.” Her hackles were raising. House was doing it again; getting under her skin. _Every time, Lisa,_ she scolded herself. _This happens every time, and every time you think it’ll go your way. What’s the definition of insanity again? Doing the same thing but expecting different results?_

House smacked himself on the head with extra flair. “Oh, that’s right. You’re an administrator, not a veterinarian. Of course you don’t see patients.” He scoffed and plastered a smug grin on his face, waiting for Cuddy’s retort. This game of cat-and-mouse was the highlight of his day.

“The six letters, VMD PhD, after my name aren’t enough for you?” Cuddy retorted. She raised an eyebrow so sharply plucked it could flay stone.   
“Not as long as the six inches in my pants aren’t enough for _you_.” House prodded without a moment’s hesitation. A tech walking by heard the last bit of this exchange, stared with wide eyes, and shuffled away when Cuddy whipped around to face her.

“Come on, House. It’s almost the end of the month. You know what that means.” Exasperation was beginning to creep into her voice now. Greg House was, once again, wearing her down. The stony resolve of Lisa Cuddy was crumbling, like it always did around Greg House.

“5 days of you crying and binge-eating Hershey’s kisses in your office?”

“If you don’t finish your clinic hours by the 31st, they roll over and accumulate into next month’s.”

“Hmm,” House paused. He did seem rather convincing in his mock deliberation, but Cuddy knew better. “That sounds like a problem for next month.” Without another word, he turned and shuffled towards the clinic’s bustling exit. Foreman gave an apologetic shrug, then followed his boss.

Cuddy bit her lip. She was determined to get the last word, even though it never really mattered with House. “You’ve been saying that for 3 months!” But her words, even if they did reach him across the clinic, fell on deaf ears. House stumbled through the door and left without even looking back, leaving Cuddy standing, fuming, amongst a sea of hectic techs.

* * *

“So this disease, mya-something-or-other gravis… what is it?” The client stood beside his trembling dog, with his arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He was sporting a grungy baseball cap and an equally grungy five-o’clock shadow. He smelled like a bag of lawn clippings. There may have even been some peppered in his hair.

Cameron took the initiative in answering the question. Immunology, after all, was her bread and butter. “It’s an autoimmune disease. The body attacks certain proteins found in skeletal muscle, causing the dog to be weak and unable to walk.”

“And this injection yer givin’ ta George, it’ll cure him?” With a single stubby, tobacco-stained finger, the client pointed at the syringe Cameron was drawing up. She held the syringe upright, tapped the air bubbles out, then replied.

“It won’t cure him, but it will reverse the condition just for a few minutes. If our diagnosis is correct, George should be back to normal almost immediately after the injection. Then we can start him on some pills that will last longer than the injection.” She turned to Chase. “Alright, can you restrain him while I inject?”

“Ah just hope yous can cure him,” the client continued drawling on. “George here, he’s a great huntin’ buddy, an’ deer season’s about to open up, y’see. Ah was hopin’ to take him on some trips with mah neighbor, he works at the University, uh, Miami an--”

Chase dropped onto his knees and put his arms around the dog, ignoring its owner. The great tan coonhound shook, slapping Chase’s face repeatedly with his expansive, leathery ears. Cameron repositioned her needle to inject, but before she could, Chase called out, “Wait, stop!” She froze.

He had felt something. Something solid, dense, and round, buried in the fur underneath George’s collar. Swirling his finger around the mass, he assessed its size, margin, and movement. And when he removed his hand, there was fresh blood on his finger. Cameron saw the blood and immediately put down her syringe.

“This isn’t myasthenia gravis.”

* * *

House stared with perverse focus at the pages of his magazine. _Sports Illustrated_ Swimsuit Edition. His focus was broken only by the raucous entry of Chase and Cameron. Even then, his eyes flitted away from the centerfold for only a moment. Apparently, his interns did not hold his interest as much as the buxom bikini-clad babe spread, quite literally, across two pages.

“Edrophonium test was conclusive,” Chase announced as he sauntered around to the head of the table, opposite House. The pride in his voice was just enough to rub the diagnostician the wrong way.

“So why are you here bragging about it when you could be down at the pharmacy getting the patient pyridostigmine, Boy Wonder?”

“The test wasn’t conclusive for MG.” He reached into his pocket and produced a small glass vial. Inside was a tick, scrambling desperately at the edges of its container. Its abdomen was grossly swollen, engorged with the patient’s blood. “ _Amblyomma maculatum_. Tick paralysis.” He set the vial down on the folding table. House looked over his glasses at the surgeon, then at the arachnid. His gave the creature in the vial only a passing glance before turning back to his magazine.

“No praise? It was a good find.” Chase said rather defensively. House raised his eyebrows, like a snake baring its fangs before striking.

“You did your job,” House replied. “If you want praise, check the memo line of your next paycheck. I’ll be sure to give you a gold star.” He paused to taken an obnoxious slurp of coffee (stolen from the surgery rec room down the hall). Then, he added as though bored, “What’d you do with the patient?”

“Started him on some IV fluids with antitoxin, he’ll stay overnight and be sent home in the morning,” Cameron offered. “So far, he seems to be recovering nicely.”

Foreman, on the other hand, was not as satisfied as his colleague. “So that’s it?” He scoffed. “Nothing for 3 months, then just a single case of tick paralysis?”

“If it makes you feel any better,” House replied. “3 months from now, it’ll be your turn to pull the tick off our patient.” With some effort, he stood from the table and grabbed his cane. The diagnostician was nearly out the door before any of his residents questioned him.

“Where are you going?” Chase asked.

“To go ruin someone’s day,” House called back as the office door slammed behind him.

* * *

Dr. James Wilson, DVM DACVIM-Onco, was everything house wasn’t: compassionate, patient, and sympathetic. The animals he saw rarely lived more than 2 years after their first appointment. And it wasn’t because Wilson was a terrible veterinarian: quite the opposite, in fact. Wilson was a people-person, and ironically, that made him a better vet than most of his peers. To this day, no animal has every walked into an appointment unaccompanied. There was always a human attached to the other end of the leash. Believe it or not, 9 times out of 10, the patient’s owner causes more problems than the patient. Maybe even closer to 99 out of 100.

That was where Wilson shined. He could calm the most irate clients, and comfort even the most heartbroken. His respect for the human-animal bond extended far deeper than a vet-patient-owner relationship. It was…

“Screw you,” Wilson barked over the clamor of the hospital cafeteria.

“At least by me dinner first,” House purred back as he munched on a handful of his friend’s French fries.

Wilson snorted. “I think I already have, considering you’ve stolen most of my food!”

“ ‘Stealing’ implies that I have no intention of returning what I’ve taken. Check the men’s room down the hall from your office in about 48 hours, it’ll be there.”

Wilson merely shook his head. “You really are something, House,” he murmured.

“That’s a dumb phrase and you know it,” House barked. “I’m made of matter; I have volume, and I certainly have mass. Of course I’m something.”

“Who are you, Rene Descartes?” Wilson snorted.

“Depends. Was he ‘something?’”

“Well, by his definition he was,” Wilson contemplated. He stared down at the last fry on his plate.

"So what would that make you?" House asked. 

Wilson looked back down and reached for the last fry in all its golden, crunchy glory, when his hand was slapped away. House had swooped in and grabbed it. In a split second the fry was gone.

"A chump," Wilson sighed. "That's what that makes me." He couldn't help the slightest smile when he looked up and saw Greg's toothy, smug grin, speckled with half-chewed french fry. 

* * *

The next afternoon, the 3 residents were seated around the folding table, waiting for… well, they didn’t know what they were waiting for exactly. George had left first thing in the morning, leaving them free to do as they wished. Cameron and Chase went on rounds with the other residents, while Foreman flipped absentmindedly through textbook after textbook. After lunch, they returned to the office to find House slumped over in a folding chair, head against the wall, snoring peacefully. His cane was propped up in the corner.

“What about you, Dr. Cameron?” Foreman probed after nearly an hour of silence. “Why’d you go to vet school?”

Her facial expression steeled for a fraction of a second, but she blinked it away. “Same reason anyone goes. I love animals.”

Foreman didn’t believe her cookie-cutter answer for a second. “That’s BS,” he snorted. “Nobody loves animals enough to go to school for 8 years, end up nearly half a million dollars in debt, only to get a job where you put animals down for 75 hours a week. All while making a third of what a human physician would. What’s the real answer?”

“That’s an incredibly pessimistic view of your own profession,” she gawked. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a veterinarian who doesn’t love animals. And if you do your job right, Foreman, you don’t have to put animals down 75 hours a week.” She glared at him. He raised his eyebrows.

“She has a point,” House piped up. He must have woken up. “You could be like Cuddy: work only 40 hours a week and never touch a single animal.”

As if on cue, the Dean of Medicine strode into their office. Her expression was strained, her gait hastened. She held a substantial manilla folder tightly in her manicured, lacquered hand.

“Speak of the Devil!” House threw his hands up joyously as Cuddy walked over. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Doc?” His eyes followed her hourglass figure as it strode around the room.

“Your patient’s back,” she said, handing off the file folder. There was no spice in her voice, no playful banter hiding in her tone this time.

“Ugh, I threw that tennis ball ages ago!” House joked. “Some dogs, they just don’t understand fetch…”

“He’s back _in the ICU,_ House. Spiked a high fever, not moving.” All 4 veterinarians sitting at the table looked up immediately. “Here’s his admission report. It’s not good; you better get down there stat.”

At first, nobody moved. After a few seconds, House commanded, “You heard the failed veterinarian- get moving!”

* * *

George lay on his side in an ICU cage. His chest rose and fell both rapidly and shallowly, tongue hanging out of his open mouth. He grimaced as though the very act of breathing was excruciating. Nothing around him, neither the other patients nor hospital staff, seemed to draw his attention. It was like he had given up.

Chase fiddled with the patient’s IV, adding another bag of lactated Ringers with an extra shot of B vitamins. The rest of the vets were gathered around, staring intently at George’s latest bloodwork.

“ALP elevated, albumin is dropping rapidly,” Foreman remarked. “According to the student who drew the blood, just positioning his arm for the syringe caused extreme pain. She barely got enough blood for a CBC/chem before he went fractious. Whatever this is, it’s hitting his joints as well as his liver. His kidneys won’t be far behind.”

“The techs said he started vomiting and passing loose stool about two hours ago,” Cameron continued. “That fits with the chemistry panel; he’s dehydrated and his electrolytes are all over the place. He was started on amoxicillin at admission and has shown no improvement.”

“Tick paralysis was a perfect fit,” Chase grumbled. “We administered antitoxin and removed the tick, that should have cured him.”

“You must’ve missed one,” said House. He was leaning against a row of cages, sneaking treats into each one. A tech cleared her throat pointedly and gestured towards the sign reading ‘I’m having a glucose tolerance test- DO NOT FEED!’ House looked away. “Rookie mistake. Foreman, go find the tick.” He pointed his cane at George.

“Chase and I palpated every inch of that dog on presentation. The one he picked off was the only one, I guarantee it.” Cameron defended her colleague, who continued to offer his differentials. He was interrupted by a sinister and rapid beeping.

George had stopped breathing. His eyes were losing their light, and he looked like he was deflating.

“He’s crashing!” Cameron cried. She yanked open George’s cage and called out to whatever tech could hear her. “Help me lift him onto the exam table!” Several student techs, clad in ceil scrubs, rushed to her aide.

“Pulse is 60 and falling,” Chase shouted to no-one in particular.

“Can’t get a reading on his BP!” Cameron continued. “Foreman, push epi into his IV!” The neurologist nodded and immediately dove into the crash cart, looking for the emergency epinephrine.

Chase pushed his way to George’s side, fitting an ambu-bag over the coonhound’s snout. He pressed hard on the plastic bulb, pushing life-sustaining oxygen into the dog’s lungs. _One, two, three_ … he counted each breath, watching the feeble rise and fall of George’s gaunt chest. Cameron had her hand wedged underneath the patient’s leg, fingers situated on his femoral artery.

“Anything?” Foreman called to her as he infused the epinephrine into the catheter. She furrowed her brow. A fierce determination masked any shade of desperation on her face.

“Nothing yet,” she replied. “-Wait!” Just then, the rhythmic beeping resumed from the machine aside George’s cage. “Pulse is back!” She glanced at her watch for a few seconds, keeping her fingers on his leg. “Heart rate is 100 bpm, pulse is bounding but steady.” She stood back from the patient and let the ICU techs move in for a more thorough exam. Brushing hair from her face, she took a second to catch her breath, as did her colleagues.

They exchanged panicked glances. Whatever was killing George, it wasn’t tick paralysis. And going by his current state, they had maybe 24 hours to find out what it was.

* * *

Back in the office, House stood stiffly at the whiteboard. Underneath “Ddx” he had written, then crossed out, myasthenia gravis and tick paralysis. Now all that remained was a single, scribbled question mark.

“He’s got a fever of 105. With his white blood cells measuring at three times the upper limit of normal, it has to be an infection of some kind.” Cameron shook her head, overwhelmed. “There’s 50 viruses that can cause acute shock, plus another 150 species of bacteria. He’s on broad-spectrum antibiotics, but that’s only a temporary solution.”

“What about something like MRSA?”

House answered this time. “It’s not MRSA. It comes in waves. We haven’t had a MRSA case in months. If there was an outbreak, Cuddy would have told me,” he sighed. “His blood culture won’t be back for another 2 days, and at the way he’s deteriorating, George’s results will be post-mortem.”

“Factor in finding that tick the other day, that narrows our list of differentials down.” Chase offered.

“Yeah, but which one? There are dozens of tick-borne diseases and they all present the same. Depression, hyperesthesia, joint pain, gastric upset, recumbence…” Foreman listed.

“Chase said the tick he found was an _A. maculatum_. The Gulf Coast Tick,” Cameron added. “That species can only carry a few different bacteria: namely, _Leptospira_ and _Hepatozoon_. Given that the patient is UTD on his lepto vaccination, it’s hepatozoonosis.”

The group was silent until Chase spoke up. “We can keep George on antibiotics for the next two weeks, but the prognosis is poor. You can’t cure hepatozoonosis. He’ll keep relapsing every few months until one relapse proves fatal.” Fleeting glances were exchanged amongst the veterinarians. That was the kind of diagnosis nobody ever wanted to make: one that can’t be cured.

House leaned over the table, biting his lip. He took a deep breath and straightened himself up, albeit still leaning heavily on his cane. “Alright,” he huffed. “Who wants to go tell the owner we need to euthanize his dog?”

* * *

House stood alone in the stairwell, his heart beating so fast he could hear it echo around the metal and concrete stairs spiraling above and below him. Sweat welled from the pores on his forehead. He could feel the strips of muscle being ripped from his leg. _My God, he could actually feel it._ The flesh being slashed open, the sinew peeled away, revealing bands of blackened muscle, pulsating and trembling as the tissue died. It stank. It was rotten. Tears began to bloom in his eyes. The floor in front of him was swimming, he was going to pass out…

The diagnostician reached a tremoring hand into his pocket. Hissing and huffing against the pain, the withdrew a prescription bottle. The few remaining pills inside rattled as he shook. Dropping his cane on the floor with a sharp _bang,_ House pried open the container and dispensed a single, chalky white pill. Stamped into it were the letters “VICODIN.”

Wasting no time, he slammed the pill into his mouth. It ricocheted down his throat, scraping his esophagus. It burned. When he finally felt it squeeze out of his throat and into his stomach, House gasped in relief. The stabbing he felt in his quadriceps was fading into nothing more than a pinprick. Soon, breath returned to his lungs. The beat of his heart regressed into a mere, satisfied whisper. With the cuff of his button-up shirt, he wiped away a sleeve’s worth of sweat.

“Another Vicodin?” Came a familiar voice. A voice with whom House had no intentions of conversing.

“Piss off, Wilson,” he hissed back. House was in no mood to entertain Wilson’s superiority complex. Nevertheless, the oncologist paced down the stairs until he met House at the 3rd floor landing. Blond hair pushed immaculately back, hands dutifully in his pockets, he looked like a damn schoolboy. “I’m not in the mood.”

Wilson didn’t budge. He stood there like a damn retriever, loyal and stupid. His sickeningly sweet demeanor did nothing to quell the acid rising in House’s throat.

“I need it,” House continued, panting. He still felt light-headed. “It’s my leg. I’m in pain.”

“No, you’re not, House,” Wilson plead. “You’re not in pain. It’s your brain telling you lies. We’ve been over this.”

“Do I need to show you the fist-sized chunk missing from my leg?” House snapped. Unconsciously, he brushed his fingers over the crater left in his thigh, tracing each irregular bump and crater where the muscle had been gouged out. Leaning against the wall, he slid down until he was sitting right on the floor.

“You don’t need the medicine because you’re in pain,” Wilson began, crouching next to his friend. He had adopted his “good doctor” voice, cooing to House like he would a patient before putting it down. House hated it. “You’re in pain because you need the medication. It’s not real, House, it’s the addiction talking to you.” Seeing the blank yet hateful expression on House’s face, Wilson was already ready to give up. The man was both an unstoppable force and an immovable object. “I swear, House,” Wilson sighed. “You’ve got it completely backwards.”

_You’ve got it completely backwards. Completely backwards. Backwards._ The words echoed in his head. Whatever Wilson was now saying drifted away into nothingness. _Backwards._ House knew it. He knew what the patient had.

Without a word, House rose to his feet and, leaving Wilson mid-sentence, strode towards the ICU. The oncologist watched his friend go, shaking his head.

* * *

Cameron, Chase, and Foreman were all gathered around the cage where George lay, panting and weak, hooked up to every machine the hospital had. Foreman was shining a light in the dog’s eyes, hoping for a reaction. He got none. George had only a few days left, at best. The three vets avoided making eye contact with one another. The elephant in the room (not a literal elephant, despite being in a veterinary hospital) was that it would be a miracle if George made it through the night.

“Cameron,” House barked. “Where did the client say he was from?”

She hesitated, trying to recall the detail she never thought would come up again. She closed her eyes and willed herself to find the answer in the back of her head. “Um, Miami. Outside the University, he said.” Foreman stepped away from George and listened intently.

“What university?” House barked again. His impatience was growing exceedingly volatile. His employees grew nervous as the air around House prickled.

“University of Miami, where else?” Chase asked. “Look, does this have anything to do with the patient? We need to make a decision here. His bloodwork is getting progressively worse, it’s time to discuss euthan-”

“Chase, you continue to surprise me,” House hissed, acid in his words. Was he really going to have to spell it out for these nincompoops? “During this case, Cameron has been wrong once, Foreman once, but you have been so blindly incorrect _twice_.” Chase prickled. “One: that tick was not an _Amblyomma_. Two: the patient is _not_ from Miami. Foreman, go to the pharmacy and get some doxycycline.”

“We’re treating him for a protozoan disease, doxy’s not going to do anything,” Foreman reasoned.

“You’re treating him for a protozoan disease, but that’s not what he has!” House shouted. Across the ICU, a parrot began to squawk at the noise. “The client doesn’t live near University of Miami, he lives near Miami University! Of _OHIO_! The ticks that live in Ohio, what do they carry?!” House’s voice was loud enough to attract the attention of almost every being, human or animal, in the ward.

A second passed. Then another.

“Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever,” Foreman said under his breath, then pushed past House in a mad dash to the pharmacy.

“That fits perfectly,” Cameron breathed. The faintest hint of a smile spread across her lips.

“Because it’s correct,” House snapped. “If your dog gets a tick on it outside of University of Miami, chances are it’s a gulf coast tick, an _Amblyomma_ , and the dog will get hepatozoonosis. If your dog gets a tick on it outside of Miami University, it’s an American dog tick, a _Dermacentor_ , and the dog will get Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. The two ticks are hard to tell apart, especially if you’re a dumb Australian blond.” House stared daggers at Chase. The surgeon’s mouth had fallen open and his glazed eyes were gazing at the wall behind his boss.

“The treatment for hepatozoonosis won’t work on RMSF, that’s why he got worse after it started. We were treating the wrong thing,” Cameron thought aloud. She turned back to George, who blinked his glassy eyes. “We get him started on antibiotics, he should be fine in a week.” A grin worked its way across her lips. “House, that’s incredible. We were just about to call the client in and recommend George be put down. He would have died for nothing. You saved hi-” Turning back to House, Cameron’s heart fell. She only just saw the end of House’s cane as it tapped out of the ICU. She wondered how much he had heard.


End file.
